Purgatorium

by J. H. Carnathan

  “I understand. You’re not ready to let go of it quite yet. Just like Dad and his telescope. He says that he wants to get buried with that thing when he dies. Is that what you’re going to do, Mommy?”

  “I was actually thinking about giving it to you. I think we both know how special this old record player is.”

  I stop eating and look up to her with excitement. “You will give it to me?!”

  “The conditions of you getting it will rely on three factors. You must never sell it and you must never tell anybody its secret powers.”

  “And what’s the third?” I say with anticipation.

  She takes another record out and plays it. A beautiful song starts to play. “Whenever you play this song, I want you to think about this moment, right now.”

  “What is so great about right now?” I tell her.

  “Because this is the day we get you an A on your science project. Now hurry up.”

  I nod. With one and a half pancakes remaining on the plate, I scoop them together on my fork and force them into my mouth. “Look!” I say, giving my mother a goofy, stuffed mouth smile. “Look at this!”

  “Give me a second,” she says while kissing me on the forehead. “And I’ll show you how this experiment was performed back when I was a child.”

  Just for a moment, she steps out of the dining room into the pantry. Alone, I listen to be certain the sound of chopping wood continues. It does. She returns with a bottle of toilet cleanser.

  “What is that?”

  “I think we can solve your science project problem,” she says, opening the drawer and taking out the roll of aluminum foil. “Here, take this.”

  “What do I do with this?”

  “Rip it into tiny pieces.”

  I tear off a sheet of foil and shred it to tiny squares, getting excited. “Now what do we do?”

  My mother opens her hands, “Put the pieces in my hands.” I lift them up and drop them into my mother’s hands. “Now, open the bottle,” she replies, with a devilish smile.

  I open the bottle and watch as she funnels the shimmering stream of foil in. Once the inside surface is lined with tiny bits, she opens a container of toilet cleaner. “Watch this,” she says, pouring the stream of the pungent fluid down in over the aluminum.

  “What do I do?” I ask. I am excited and nervous.

  “Close it,” she says, going into the living room and coming back with the Polaroid camera. “Once you do, be sure to shake it up really vigorously.” My mother positions herself in front of me, holding the camera up ready to take a photo. I close my eyes and start shaking the mixture.

  “Come on,” she urges. “Shake it up!”

  “Like this?” I shake the container more forcefully.

  “Yes!” she says. “Only more!”

  “You mean, like this?” I ask again, shaking it as hard as I can. My whole body is bouncing up and down.

  “Yes!” she says. “Now, stop.”

  I stop, but in the process, lose my grip on the bottle. I fumble for it, grasping desperately at the awkward shape as it topples over onto the floor. I hold my breath.

  “Grab it!” she shouts to me as we both look down at the vigorous, frothy mixture. As I crouch over to seize it, the bottle explodes. I jump back across the kitchen as the spray of fluid surrounds the room. She is laughing hysterically. We laugh together.

  “Smile,” she says, taking a picture of me laughing and covered in soda.

  “I don’t understand!” I say, still laughing and smiling.

  “Maybe a little less tin foil next time?” she says, pulling the snapshot the rest of the way out of the camera. “I don’t know.”

  “I want to see! I want to see!” I shout excitedly. My mother holds the photo out, flapping it back and forth, waiting for the first vague signs of an image to appear.

  For a moment, we linger in silence. Mother and son huddled together as the images start to appear on the photo. I suddenly become aware of how silent it is and look up at my mother, who is staring straight ahead, also seeming to hear the silence. The record has stopped and so did the hacking.

  “When did you stop hearing the chopping?” my mother asks me.

  I look over at the American flag that is framed up against the wall in the living room. It’s a tradition in our family, maybe the only tradition we have. It was a gift handed down the line on my father’s side of my family tree starting with my great-great-great-granddad. He fought in the civil war and died in battle. Each of the men in my family has fought in a war. From the Civil War all the way up to the Gulf War. My father left the army when my mom got pregnant.

  I think he regrets having me, for that reason and probably because of how I have no interest in joining the army or anything else pertaining to live combat. I don’t think it suits me all too well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he keeps the flag all to himself. Though, if my father ever does hand it down to me, I might actually set it on fire just to let him know how I feel about him.

  “What was that noise?” My father’s voice from the backyard makes us both stiffen with terror. I clutch her leg, wondering where my father is, precisely, in his trip from the shed to the door.

  “Nothing!” my mother shouts back, her voice trembling from fear.

  “I heard a racket!” he insists.

  He is close to the back door, I think, and I feel my body go numb. The back door opens, I hear my father’s footsteps, then the door closes and footsteps go up the stairs. He walks through the doorway into the dining room, carrying a hatchet—the same hatchet I have in the glass case in my apartment.

  “You look at this mess,” he yells, “and you tell me ‘nothing?’”

  “Everything’s okay. Don’t worry,” says mom.

  “It stinks!” my father says. “What is it?”

  “Toilet cleaner,” responds my mom, smiling but scared.

  My father stomps past both of us to the kitchen sink. He dampens a towel and blots his sweat and wood chip-covered face.

  “Finished with the wood so soon, sweetheart?” my mother asks in a cheerful but shaky voice. I see how fearful my mother is.

  My father groans into the towel, his face buried in it.

  “We were just working on our son’s…”

  “What in thunder happened here?” he roars suddenly, throwing the towel into the sink and turning abruptly towards us.

  “Just a science project, darling,” my mother replies, trembling. “I was going to clean everything up before you came in.”

  “You’re not cleaning it. It is his mess. He cleans it. Stop babying him. He won’t learn nothing if you keep babying him all the time!” my father shouts as he steps closer to me. “Didn’t I tell you to do those science projects of yours outside?”

  “Hold on!” his mother says, raising her voice a little and stepping bravely between father and son. “It was my fault! Not his!”

  Simmering with rage, my father turns and looks at the dining room table. He steps past both of us and points at the syrup-covered plate. “And what was this?”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she pleads.

  “Oh, am I?”

  “He was getting hungry when he got home so I made him a snack.”

  My father grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl in the middle of the table. “This is a snack!” he roars. “That is a meal! You think money grows on trees around here?”

  “Look,” she pleads. “Let’s be reasonable.”

  “You shut up!” he shouts. “I’m talking to him!” he says, pointing at me.

  My father reaches into the front pocket of his overalls and pulls out a long, silver butterfly knife. He looks at me with disdainful eyes. He quickly flips the knife around, doing the trebuchet trick without blinking or moving his eyes off me. He keeps looking at me while he slices the apple into four neat qu
arters.

  “What are you trying to prove?” she asks, in a fearful voice.

  My father then walks over to me, taking one of the apple slices between thumb and index finger. “This is a snack,” he says, forcing one of the slivers into my mouth. Tears stream down my cheek as I accept the slice and reluctantly begin to chew, feeling sick from eating too much already.

  “He understands,” my mother begs. “Now, please stop!”

  “From now on you’re going to start helping out in the yard!” I nod at my father.

  “You’re old enough,” he says, grinning and gritting his teeth. “You don’t need to be babied around anymore.” I chew the apple slice as well as I can, still feeling like throwing up.

  My father walks over to the kitchen sink, picks up his hatchet, steps back to me, and places it gently in my hands. My mother is crying, struggling to maintain composure. “Wait outside,” my father says in a gentle but somehow terrifying voice. “I will be there in a minute.”

  I do not want to leave. I want to protect my mother, but I know I would be powerless against my father. I stand still, looking at her for a moment.

  “Run along, son, run along,” my mother says, smiling at me, but trembling. I reluctantly and fearfully turn and walk down the stairs, barely able to feel my limbs, my heart pounding, tears still streaming down my face. I push the back door open, stumble pass Mom’s Buick Roadmaster, and out into the backyard.

  “There is already a log lined up!” I hear my father shout from up the stairs. “Start practicing! Remember, practice makes perfect!”

  I raise the hatchet up over my head. It is heavy and wobbles in my hand a little. I close my eyes, bringing it down on the log. Crack! I look down at the log. The blade has barely penetrated the surface, but it is stuck in the log. I put my foot on the log and pull up on the hatchet, trying to free it. As it comes loose, I lose my grip on the handle. The hatchet falls to the ground. I jump out of the way.

  You can do this, I think, as I crouch down to pick it up. As I stand up, I am startled by the sound of a terrible crash from inside the house. I jump a little, then turn. I see my mother cowering in the dining room window.

  “Stop babying him!” my father roars, his hand raised to hit her. “That boy needs to take responsibility for his own actions!” My father looms over her. “Let him grow up!”

  I hear the table being shoved. Then my mother’s pleading voice. She screams. I hear something thud against the floor, then another scream. Without thinking, I drop the hatchet and run to the door to see what happened. I suddenly feel my body getting colder. I need to keep running! I am almost there to the door when everything goes black.

  I wake up still inside the tank. I can move only my eyeballs; everything else is frozen. I look to my right and see my right arm is being reformed. I feel my body warming somehow, though the water is still ice around me. My reforming arm begins to crack the ice next to me. I push harder with my limbs and head, and suddenly the entire glass tank cracks and shatters, exploding outwards.

  I immediately start falling. I quickly reach out with my now free arm and grab for the elevator cables beside me. I catch them! My body swings and slams into the wall of the elevator shaft. I look and see that I have only fallen a few feet.

  Catching my breath, I climb up the cables one flight to the open door of my floor and slide out. Raphael is gone. I hear an almost audible voice that sounds like someone is talking. I listen closely and start walking slowly, following the sound.

  As I near my office, the voice becomes louder. I turn and step through my office doorway and listen again. It sounds like it’s coming from the window. I gaze out, watching the sun quickly setting. Any light that was left from the sun has been extinguished as the moon begins to appear from within the darkness. The hourglass turns over as the now clear full moon shines over the night sky. I look closer to see the reflection of the hourglass, and my own reflection beside it.

  30 Minutes

  My reflected self begins to move on its own. It turns its head and looks at me. “One of them is lying to you,” it says. “One is not to be trusted. A demon dwells around you.”

  I think quickly, looking up at the ceiling to focus my thoughts. “A demon dwells around you.” I look back at the window and see only myself staring back. I must find out which of the angels is my demon, I think, resolutely.

  Minutes go by as I make my way up the stairs. Hatchet in my right hand and pistol case in my left, I ascend the final steps and enter the dining room of the lighthouse restaurant.

  35 minutes

  Raphael is sitting at the same table, smoking a cigarette, with the menu draped across his lap. I feel rage overtake me as I walk to the table. I drop the hatchet on the table in front of Raphael and sit down across from him.

  “I see someone got their arm back.”

  I keep looking straight at him, not blinking while I do it. Raphael taps his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.

  “You see, your arm is back because you felt something. Anger from a father, love from a mother—it doesn’t matter what, as long as you feel it. The day you stop caring, feeling, is the day your demons have your soul.” Raphael looks down at the menu. “Now, what do you want, brotha? It’s on me.”

  The waitress emerges, a smile on her placid face. “May I have your orders?”

  “Well, look at this here, the floozy from next door, the cat with unlimited lives waiting on us,” Raphael says, glancing at me. “That is a coincidence all by itself. Wouldn’t you concur? I mean what are the chances?!” He turns to the waitress. “You know, I never did get your name. What, pray tell, is it?” She looks down, trying to think. “No name tag. What’s your name, my dear?” She stammers.

  “Well, I’m gonna call you Ronda. I knew a girl named Ronda. She was a lost soulless witch like yourself, but she was pretty fat too. So you have that working for ya.”

  He turns to me. “You see, Ronda here is what we like to call a soul squatter: a soul that links onto another soul’s strand and just waits till the time is right. She gave up her body to her demons and now, instead of going from port to port, she drops anchor here. Just waiting for your holy exit door to open so she can slip by you without even you noticing. She then goes and takes your human suit for a ride, all the while leaving you down here to rot.”

  The waitress tries to leave, but Raphael grabs her arm.

  “He has complete admiration for you,” Raphael says, looking at the waitress and nodding toward me. “He has so much admiration that he wants to give you an extra tip. How grateful is he, Ronda? Give Ronda the extra tip, will you please?”

  I reach into my jacket, find a fold of bills, and take it out.

  Still holding her arm firmly, Raphael looks up at the waitress. “How much is that, do you think? Around $200? That’s a lot of money, wouldn’t you say? You can do a lot with that money. You could spend it on clothes or get your nails done or...I don’t know! Just get the hell out of here and move on to somewhere else. Maybe find someone else who maybe even gives a crap about you. Have a couple of soulless kids. Maybe pay to have your name changed. Really settle down, you feel me?”

  The waitress, still looking fearful, starts to tear up.

  “Still not going to leave, are you? I was expecting that. I was counting on that, actually,” he says to the waitress. He looks back at me. “I tried to do the noble thing, just keep that in mind.”

  Raphael caresses the waitress’ leg. She looks too scared to move. He reaches inside his coat pocket, pulls out his pistol, and points it at the waitress.

  “Get out your pistol,” he says to me. I reach around to the back of my pants, feel the pistol there, and take it out. “And your loading equipment.” I take the pistol case from where it was sitting, on my lap, and put it on the table. I unlatch it and start preparing the pistol to load it.

  Raphael reaches back into my
pocket and then across the table to an empty glass in front of me. He drops one of the silver lead balls he made earlier into the glass. “Now, let’s see how fast you can save good ol’ Ronda here. You have got one minute. Go!”

  I quickly grab the glass and reach inside of it, grabbing at the ball with my fingers.

  “You have a beautiful smile, Ronda,” Raphael continues. “I bet a lot of guys compliment you on that smile, don’t they?” He smiles. “Don’t let my friend here infect you with his shyness. You’re better than that.”

  The waitress just stares down at the table and at Raphael’s pistol. “Cat got your tongue? At least nod for Pete’s sake!”

  Raphael pulls the waitress closer and presses the pistol hard against her temple. Terrified and shaking, she nods her head up and down. I fumble with the ramrod and the pitch, desperately trying to remember how to reload the pistol.

  “Yeah, I bet a lot of married guys like that smile too. Ronda, do you like when married guys compliment you on your smile? Oh, I bet you do. I mean the reason you got a divorce was because you cheated on him with another married guy, did you not?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she cries, her eyes wide and full of terror. I pour the black powder into the pistol.

  “Sure you do, Ronda! You like married men. Say it!” Raphael grins. He cocks the hammer on the pistol back. The waitress starts sobbing more heavily, her chest heaving, trying to breathe.

  “You got 30 seconds, brotha.”

  I pick up the ramrod again and stuff it in, accidentally forgetting to put the bullet in first.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—” she blurts out suddenly. I look at her surprised, but remember that I need to keep loading.

  “Oh, but you did, Ronda! You did! Why him, though? That’s what I want to know. Out of all the strands of all the souls, why latch on to my boy here? Hmm? Is it because my boy here is in a way still married? Getting cheap thrills? Maybe someone to relate to, is that it? You forming a little cheater’s club? Talk about your problems and feel remorse for the things you’ve done? The real world wasn’t good enough so you have to go hanging around married men in this bizarre sort of afterlife? Or are you trying to get him to stay here? I bet you’re the reason he’s still here in the first place. Who wants to bet?”